


Actions

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Biting, Blow Jobs, Bruises, Established Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2209764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Giriko’s voice is still rough, grating in his throat, but his fingers are shifting in what feels like a stroke over the skin just above Justin’s shirt collar, and the pause before he goes on says far more about his loss for how to proceed than anything else." Giriko is bad with words, but Justin is good at understanding actions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Actions

“You’re such a fucking brat.”

Giriko doesn’t  _sound_  affectionate. Justin can hear clearly enough, even though anything he tries to say himself comes out muffled from the way the other weapon is shoving his head down against the mattress. He’s grinning in spite of that, turning his face farther down against the sheets so Giriko won’t see; sometimes it’s fun to needle Giriko into a full-blown rage, but the chainsaw’s touch is actually more gentle than it has been in weeks, and the curious part of Justin wants to see how far he can take this, how far obedient submission will get him.

It’s not like he’s giving up the war, after all. It’s a strategic retreat in the constant back-and-forth that has become normal between them, and he’s already put up enough of a fight to make capitulation plausible. He can feel Giriko’s fingers at his shoulder slippery and hot with smeared blood from the bite at the chainsaw’s wrist, where Justin’s teeth imprinted temporary frustration when the other man tried to cover his mouth to stop the flow of his taunts.

“I know,” Justin says, doing his best to sound contrite. It doesn’t work quite right in his throat, it sounds a little too much like a laugh in his own ears, but Giriko isn’t paying enough attention to pick up on it, or he ignores the emotional overlay, or the muffled effect of the barrier against Justin’s lips is enough to drown out the amusement. The force against Justin’s shoulder lessens, though Giriko keeps enough pressure to make it clear Justin isn’t moving anywhere without his permission.

“Well.” Giriko’s voice is still rough, grating in his throat, but his fingers are shifting in what feels like a stroke over the skin just above Justin’s shirt collar, and the pause before he goes on says far more about his loss for how to proceed than anything else. “‘Slong as you know.”

“I just wanted you to drag me in here,” Justin admits, turning his head so Giriko can hear the amusement in his voice now. “It’s so much easier to pick a fight than to try to seduce you.” Giriko growls, a warning and a forming threat, and the temptation is too much. Justin’s intention to be submissive steps aside, lets his voice have free rein while he shifts against the bed, deliberately slides his legs apart so it almost looks accidental. “You’re so easy to lead.”

Justin’s expecting the hiss of rage, the pressure of fingers closing on his hip. He doesn’t turn over himself, lets the chainsaw bleed off some of his anger in forcing the other weapon over onto his back by strength alone. Justin can’t repress his smile, though he does manage to take the edge off the smirk so it’s softened into just delight instead of sharp teasing.

“You made me  _bleed_ ,” Giriko points out. It’s an unnecessary declaration, given that he’s shoving Justin’s shirt up so the blond can feel the sticky catch of the drying color against his skin, but Giriko’s fingers are pushing in hard against Justin’s stomach, his fingernails catching until he nearly draws blood himself, and Justin is too struck by the wash of response hot under his skin to say anything. Giriko’s fingers settle over his chest, the chainsaw shoves down so for a moment Justin can’t catch his breath for the pressure, and then he’s leaning in himself, letting the pressure lessen only to drop his weight atop the blond so Justin can’t move away. “Why the fuck do I put up with you?”

Justin takes a shallow breath, lets his mouth curve into a smile no less sincere for the breathless gasp underneath it. “I gather it has something to do with the way I look naked.”

“Huh.” Giriko lets some of his weight up so he’s over his knees, shoves hard enough at Justin’s shirt that the blond has to lift his arms up over his head or let the chainsaw tear his shirt entirely. Even with that advantage, Giriko barely shoves it past his shoulders before he lets go, leaving Justin to struggle out of the fabric and toss it aside so he can see the speculative look in Giriko’s eyes, staring at his skin like he’s never seen the blond shirtless before.

“I am having some vague memories here,” Giriko admits, trailing his fingers back down across Justin’s chest, scraping his fingernails across the other’s nipple as he goes so Justin hisses in the leading edge of pain and tries to jerk away. “Still hazy, though.”

“Is your recollection going with age?” Justin asks with the sweetest concern he can muster. “It’s so tragic, the way the mind starts to lose its edge as senility sets in.”

Giriko growls, low and warning, and Justin laughs even before the chainsaw grates, “Shut your damn mouth,  _kid_ , if you want to keep your tongue.” He doesn’t bother with the button or the zipper on Justin’s jeans; they’re not that loose, but sheer force does the job just as well, even if the drag of the waistband over Justin’s hips scrapes his skin raw and makes him hiss with pain at the excess of friction that tears his skin so bruised it’s nearly bloody. He’s not entirely hard yet, which is for the best; it’s painful enough even as it is, the way the tight fabric catches and drags at him. Justin gasps at the pull, his hands dropping to touch instinctively to assess the damage at the thin skin at his hipbones, but Giriko doesn’t even look up, just keeps tugging until he’s got the jeans free of Justin’s ankles and can throw them aside. Justin is still flinching from the pain echoing over his skin when the chainsaw comes back, grinning the too-wide smile that never means anything good, at least for most people’s definition of  _good_. But Justin’s not most people, in the end, and his eyes drop to the points of Giriko’s inhuman teeth and his blood pulses hot with something far from pain even before the other man purrs, “Ah, wait, it’s coming back to me now.”

His hands replace Justin’s over the other’s hips, larger and with none of the tentative gentleness the blond showed when feeling out the damage; the pressure of his grip makes Justin hiss, jerk instinctively to try to free himself, but Giriko doesn’t even look up to acknowledge his movement. The motion just succeeds in digging his hold tighter, pushing the ache lower into Justin’s skin, and it’s generating heat, blood rising to the surface and taking color with it but there’s another burn there, too, spreading out up into Justin’s chest and down into his legs and surging hot into his cock before Giriko’s even really touched him.

“There it is.” Giriko’s voice is a hum, a dragging grate over his vocal chords that makes Justin shiver even before the chainsaw lets one of his hands go to reach out and skim his fingers over the blond’s length. Justin shudders, jerks up towards the contact, and Giriko laughs and takes advantage of the motion to pull at his hip, drag him up and sideways. “ _That’s_  why I put up with you.”

“Glad you remembered,” Justin manages, throwing his hands out to soften his fall onto his stomach. The mattress is soft under his hips, not enough resistance for what he wants, but Giriko’s pushing his knees apart, wide and farther until Justin’s legs protest and he gasps at the first edge of pain from the angle. “ _Ah_. And you know what to do from here, I see.”

“This part’s easy,” Giriko says. He leaves Justin where he is, slides off the bed and moves across the room, but the blond doesn’t move while he listens to the sound of the other man sliding open drawers and tumbling through the contents. “I’ve got a pretty blond thing panting for me to fuck him, anyone would know what to do.”

It would be pointless to deny how fast Justin is breathing, and his body has already given away his physical interest. So he lets that point stand, smiles dreamily at the wall and cuts his eyes sideways and back at the other man while he shifts his weight to arch his back and tip his hips up in offering.

“You think I’m  _pretty_?” He lets the words go high and dramatic in his throat, breathy with surprise and pleasure that is less feigned than Giriko will think it is. He can just see the chainsaw turning back around in his periphery, can just catch the disbelieving laugh in the other man’s throat before his knee presses in against the mattress and he’s too close for Justin to watch anymore.

“Of course you’re pretty,” Giriko says, the words turning taunting on his lips. His fingers against Justin’s skin are cool and slick, the contact the only warning Giriko offers before he slides his hand up and against the blond. “Haven’t you seen yourself in a fucking mirror?”

“That’s different,” Justin protests. The resistance is all in his words; he’s relaxing against the push of Giriko’s fingertips, letting himself fall boneless and pliant against the sheets while the chainsaw angles his hand to work two fingers into him. It’s a familiar stretch, the heat of the pressure more of a comfort than pain properly, and Justin’s words don’t even catch in his throat. “You’re talking about objective attractiveness, now.”

“‘Objective attractiveness,’” Giriko repeats back, dragging his voice high and taunting. “Yes, I think you’re goddamn pretty. Feel better?” His fingers slide in farther, draw back for another slow slipping thrust. “Or do you want me to write you a poem or some shit like that?”

“No,” Justin says, as if considering. That gets him a hiss of frustration, a harder shove of the fingers into him so his hand curls into an involuntary fist on the sheets under him. “The compliment is enough.”

“I wasn’t trying to compliment you,” Giriko growls, sliding his hand free so fast Justin gasps at the friction and the loss both, turns his head down against the mattress so he can muffle his breathing and listen to the sound of Giriko unfastening his jeans and working the fabric down far enough that it’s out of the way. “I was trying to  _upset_  you.” His hands come back to the same raw skin at Justin’s hips, his fingers fit into the bruises like they are the initial cause; this time it’s all heat, sweeping blistering into Justin’s blood even before he feels Giriko’s cock run up against him.

It’s a familiar angle, enough that Giriko doesn’t take the time to shift his weight. Justin already has his back arched and his hips canted up in offering; all Giriko has to do is rock forward, and he does, fast enough that he’s sliding in before Justin can catch a breath, is fitting into him before the blond can think through letting his first desperate handhold on the sheets go.

“D’you want me to jerk you off?” Giriko asks, sounding only slightly breathless. His fingers are tense but his movements are smooth, if pushing right up on the edge of too-much too-fast. Justin has his mouth open in an attempt to prevent his breathing from dragging into a moan with every inhale, but even so the forward thrust of the other man’s hips into him is pulling a gasping whine from him before he can catch it back, his throat is trying to turn every vocalization into a moan without his permission.

He’s still willing to try for coherency, is forming his lips around the affirmative when Giriko goes on. “If you wait I’ll go down on you instead.” Another motion, sharp and so quick Justin does moan, this time, as the impact sends a jolt of fire rushing through his blood.

It’s no question, not really. Justin knows it, and he knows that Giriko knows it; he’s sure the only reason the chainsaw is asking at all is for the whine of desperation it gets from Justin’s throat, the anxious rock of his hips down against the sheets, even before he’s collected himself enough to shape the words “I’ll wait,” from his over-tense throat. Giriko doesn’t answer coherently; there’s a rusty crackle of a laugh, a shift of the fingers at Justin’s hips, and when he moves again his rhythm has shifted, taken on the too-quick pace that Justin knows Giriko prefers for his own purposes. His usual consideration for Justin’s satisfaction is evident only in the lack of it, the fact that usually his movements catch Justin’s blood into washing heat and now it’s too much, each burst of sensation is coming so hard on the heels of the last that Justin’s composure isn’t melting, it’s shattering, it’s gone before he ever had it. Usually Justin has to ask for this, or taunt Giriko into it when he’s burning for the psychological shiver of being put to a use rather than treated as a partner; this time it’s just swamping him, he’s not braced for it and he’s not ready. There’s just motion and sensation and unthought sound tearing in his throat, his fingers catching and clinging to the sheets, and he can hear Giriko’s rumbling laughter but he can’t piece reason into it. There’s no self-consciousness left in his thoughts, no awkward awareness of the way his breathing is dragging into moans in time with Giriko’s thrusts into him. Giriko’s saying something but the words are broken apart, Justin can’t hear them and he’s not even sure they’re coherent anyway; the convulsive tightening of the fingers on his skin carries an implication he understands intuitively if not consciously.

Justin’s entire body is starting to shake, trembling uncontrollably with sensation and the edge of pain and the sweep of pleasure, and he’s starting to choke on his inhales, starting to think that even missing out on a blowjob would be okay if he ends up coming without being touched at all. But then Giriko growls, a low rumble of tension and pleasure together, and his hands tighten further, and the next flood of heat is the last. Justin can feel his coherency reforming, sensation drawing back and pulling his self back in its wake, and Giriko’s grip loosens as desperation tightens fierce in Justin’s chest.

“Fuck,” Giriko sighs, and starts to pull away. Justin barely waits; Giriko’s fingers are still lingering at his skin when he groans and rolls over, starts to reach down before he catches his hand into a fist to resist the urge to touch himself. He shuts his eyes, lifts his hand up to rest over his shoulder and out of the range of temptation, and Giriko laughs, dark and entertained even while Justin struggles to take a steady breath.

“Please,” he manages. His skin is burning, waves of want sweeping out over him, he’s sure he’s flushed pink with the surge of blood warm under his skin, and he can’t even care that he sounds utterly shattered. “Giriko,  _please_.”

“Okay,” Giriko says, with surprisingly little protest. His hand lands back at Justin’s hip, hard enough to pin the blond in place, and Justin whimpers and tries to rock in towards the contact, tries to grind himself in against the chainsaw’s arm. That gets him another hand on the other side, Giriko’s fingers pressing him against the bed, and when the other man talks again he’s leaning down, so close his breath is blowing warm against Justin’s length. “I fucking  _love_  you when you’re desperate.”

Justin doesn’t have any comeback to that. Half of that is because his vision is out-of-focus, he’s trying to wiggle free of Giriko’s hold with no thought beyond need and instinct and there’s just not much coherency left even in the space of his own head. But the rest is the implication under the words, the casual ‘love you’ even phrased in such a way that it doesn’t catch on Giriko’s tongue; Justin’s still taking a sharp startled inhale of shock at that when the chainsaw dips his head down, and then all his thoughts really do evaporate. All the input from his body narrows to pinpoint focus, all the world outside of Giriko’s mouth vanishes, and he’s arching up off the bed, reaching to grab at whatever he can reach -- the sleeve of Giriko’s shirt, a fist of the other’s hair -- as if he might disintegrate without something to tether him down. Giriko is laughing, or humming, generating sensation against his tongue and lips to pull Justin’s body into harmonic resonance, involuntary and uncontrollable tremors drawing tight in the blond’s wrists, legs, neck. Justin’s not sure he’s breathing, at least not regularly, but Giriko’s hands are points of reference, bracing him in place and promising to bring him back so he can let the shaking wash through him instead of waging a doomed war against it. The seconds pull long, stretch taut and quivering against the heat of Giriko’s mouth and the slide of his tongue; then he comes down farther, closes his lips around Justin entirely so he can suck pressure over him, and Justin wails and shudders into the blind heat of pleasure as sensation washes out over his skin and the tension in his limbs goes slack and warm and satisfied.

Giriko pulls away as soon as Justin relaxes back to the bed, lets his grip go gentle as the blond sighs shakily and blinks at him. The chainsaw swallows hard; for a moment his features contort into a grimace before he sees Justin’s expression. His mouth drops into a frown, his eyebrows come down low and threatening.

“That tastes fucking awful,” he protests, but he’s leaning in instead of pulling away, tucking his face down into Justin’s bare shoulder before the blond can more than glimpse the faint color coming up to stain his cheeks. That’s okay. Justin doesn’t have anything to  _say_ , really, but he’s fairly certain shock is painted all over his features, possibly with a touch of affectionate pleasure that is absolute anathema to Giriko’s usual tolerance.

He reaches up to let his finger drop gentle against Giriko’s hair. He can’t get away with words -- he’s tried that over and over and received nothing but hissing aggression from the chainsaw -- but actions Giriko will let stand, even if they’re screaming affection louder than speech ever could. This is one of the first times he’s actively made a gesture of his own; Justin’s not about to threaten the possibility of a repeat performance by  _commenting_  on it.

He’s rather have the actions than the words anyway.


End file.
